


save that light

by waywarded



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin Dean Winchester, Background Cain (Supernatural), Background Jody Mills, Blasphemy, Broken Castiel (Supernatural), Broken Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural) Whump, Crucifixion, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean/Cas Reverse Bang, Destiel Reverse Bang 2019, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Grieving Dean Winchester, Healthy Relationships, Heavy Angst, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Human Naomi (Supernatural), Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Psychological Trauma, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Supportive Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 09:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywarded/pseuds/waywarded
Summary: He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive— Dean isn’t sure if it’s his brain, if he’s speaking aloud, if it’s Jody, next to him in the car, buthe’s alive, Castiel is alive, and then there is darkness.





	save that light

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [save that light (art work)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103623) by [Unforth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth). 



> Oh boyyy. This is my contribution for the 2019 round of Dean/Cas Reverse Bang, written for the beautiful art by Unforth! It was my first time participating for a bang and the artist made my experience absolutely joyful! The art itself is breathtakingly beautiful and I was lucky to have managed to claim it - and she was involved in the fic brainstorming process as well. This story would not exist without her and her art, so the credit goes first and foremost to her!
> 
> Thank you for the always lovely HeartsandThumbs for beta reading!
> 
> Mind the tags, people! This is very heavy angst, and while it has a happy ending, it is... a lot.

 

The concrete hitting his knees is there, at the back of Dean’s mind, the impact sending surges of pain up his thighs, dulling sooner than he deserves it to dull.

 

He’d scream, only there’s no breath left in him; it’s as if his very _life_ is being squeezed out of him, and all things considered, maybe that would be a blessing.

 

No.

 

_No_.

 

Giving up — has never been an option, not for Dean Winchester, not when...

 

Not when it’s about his people.

 

_I was over this!_

 

(He was)

 

_I buried you!_

 

(never)

 

_I can’t do this again, Cas._

 

(over this.)

 

He can’t move a muscle, that’s how rigid he is. As if it weren’t Cas who was...

 

It’s blasphemy, not against God, Dean doesn’t give two fucks about God today, not if... It’s unholy enough to force the most alive eyes Dean has ever laid his on, closed, and as if him needing to handle that hasn’t been terrible enough, now Castiel’s broken body is left before him like this; never mind that he’s here by coincidence, never mind that no one knows he uses the abandoned church as a hideaway, an escape from himself, all that matters is _Castiel_ , Castiel’s memory tarnished.

 

Dean regains his ability to move, at first shaking, still staring at the sight before him, though his vision is getting all the more blurry. Lack of oxygen, tears, it doesn’t matter. His arms, spread and trembling violently, lips parted for a silent, unbreathed scream, still, and it feels like an eternity has passed since he stopped breathing, an eternity, and if it is eternity, that implies it has no end, and he—

 

The sound begins as a wail, barely audible, but quickly escalates as he crumbles, curling up, body shaking violently, breath passing through his lungs only to be exhaled as cries of helplessness and misery and all of that unleashed grief that now forces its way out from behind the walls Dean has built for it.

 

His eyes still on his partner, his everything.

 

Maybe it’s that, the love, the bond they’ve shared for long enough for Dean to notice the slightest changes in his lover — but he can sense it in the air more than actually see it; _Cas is breathing_. Shallow, quick breaths, barely there.

 

Cas.

 

Is.

 

_Breathing_.

 

“No, no...” Dean tries to force himself on his feet but can’t manage. On all fours, fumbles for any sparkle of hope, terrified, repeating his denial over and over, unable to think, wanting to act instead, but unable to as much as get on his feet. He forces his eyes shut, trying to rid himself of the image before him, but it’s no use; everything is seared into his brain, permanently. And he can’t think properly, can’t find the words, can’t find coherence, but through his haze he knows — he won’t ever forget this.

 

Trembling hands fumble for his phone, on autopilot. Time loses its meaning, and instead of seconds, he counts the faint sound of Castiel’s breaths (or are they his own? they are so loud), the numbers losing their meaning, as well.

 

He doesn’t know if he hopes Cas is conscious or not.

 

Doesn’t know which would be kinder.

 

Better.

 

“Charlie,” he’s surprised he even manages her name into the receiver.

 

The rest of the day is a blur. Rather, Dean experiences everything from behind the image that seems not only to be seared onto his eyes, but all of his senses, all of himself — Cas, a rendition of what seems like a travesty of Biblical artwork, only Dean doesn’t know who the Romans of his story are and there’s no one he can take revenge on. Cas’s barely-there breaths as he hangs, immobile, heavy-duty nails impaling his palms (the same ones Dean can remember cupping his face so many times), _blood_ , the nearly bare ( _raw_ ) form of his world; and why is it that the image is so _clear_ in Dean’s head? All of it, all of him, even against the evening light filtering through the stained glass windows of the church, lighting Cas’s back rather than his front — all of it, all of him, is still bright and clear in Dean’s memories. He keeps _seeing_ Cas, up on the cross, even as he grips his hair, on his knees, still on the unforgiving floor of the church, pulls onto his hair violently to force the image away, only it refuses to leave. He keeps seeing Cas, even though Charlie and Cain and Jody and Bobby are all there, and the cross is bare, save for the blood, Cain carrying the broken body of Dean’s everything towards safety, someone’s hand on Dean’s shoulder, he thinks Charlie’s, maybe, but all he can do is keep wailing, as he shoves her away. They’re making him walk out, too, and he only goes with them to be able to stay with Cas.

 

_He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive_ — Dean isn’t sure if it’s his brain, if he’s speaking aloud, if it’s Jody, next to him in the car, but _he’s alive_ , Castiel is _alive_ , and then there is darkness.

 

Even through the darkness, Dean can hear Castiel’s quick breaths. His own heart hammering. Smell the fight and the fear in the air. Feel the cold of the floor against his knees, even through his clothes, even as he finds himself tucked in on Cain’s sofa, with Charlie fussing over him, and his first woken thought is to snap at her for looking after him, when she should be looking after Cas, because obviously Cas needs her more, needs all of their attention and care, and what the hell was Dean doing unconscious, when Cas _needs_ him?! And the unthinkable: he’s dead. He’s dead, once more, and doesn’t need Charlie or anyone, anymore, and he must have cried out, because Charlie is hurriedly updating him, and Cas, Cas is still alive, still breathing.

 

Dean reaches for Charlie, not caring about all of his broken parts being there for her to see, for once in his life; just clings onto her and cries and cries and cries.

 

—

 

Eventually, even as the images of his lover, crucified, persist, Dean’s panic dulls into a miserable lull of exhaustion. He ignores his friends’ attempts to urge him to get some rest; he’s trusted Cain with a plethora of stab wounds, gunshot wounds even, over the years, but that was all for _himself_ , not... not Castiel. Jody’s brought Alex to keep an eye on Cas to let Cain catch a few hours of shuteye, but despite the semi-professionals Dean would trust over hospital care anytime, keeping care of Cas, he needs to stay awake. Needs to be there when Cas wakes up.

 

As much as he trusts Cain and Alex with medical care, though — there’s nothing they can do if Cas goes critical. They can’t perform major surgeries on their own; and if they need to hospitalise Cas...

 

Dean doesn’t want to think about it.

 

He doesn’t care about _himself_ ; but Castiel is an innocent in all of this. Caught up in his line of job, Castiel might never have commited a felony in his life, but having been in a relationship with an assassin for over a decade wouldn’t look very nice on paper.

 

And Castiel Krushnic is, according to the records, dead.

 

Not because of what happened — what they thought happened — six months ago; no, all of them are dead, on paper. Charlie’s made sure of that.

 

When one marries a guy who kills people for a living, instead of a marriage certificate, he gets a death certificate. It was the ultimate commitment from Cas. One Dean tried to vigorously talk him out of, in fear of trapping him to a life he would one day regret.

 

(”I’ve been basically married to you for five years, you ass, so unless you want to break up with me, deal with it,” Cas had finally said, and that had been that. And then, his features growing less stern, that stupid, beautiful, endearing, loving smile taking over, “Dean, I love you — could you stop trying to make me stop for five seconds and trust me?”)

 

And as trained as Cain and Alex are in medical care, none of them know too much about... psychiatric care.

 

Because they might not know what the fuck happened to Castiel, but considering how it ended...

 

But they can’t. Unless Cas, once awake, asks for it, they _can’t_.

 

They’ll just need to make do with what they’ve got.

 

Dean jumps at the feeling of a hand resting on his shoulder, eyes darting towards Charlie, sitting next to him. Takes a breath, lowers his head again. Her hand stays still, grounding him.

 

All of the ones working under her are people Dean considers family. Charlie, though... Charlie is practically a sister to him. The one of them closest to his heart.

 

“I sent Bobby off for a burger run.”

 

Dean can’t help glancing at her.

 

“Well, you need to eat before Cain is forced to perform CPR on you, and I’m pretty sure he isn’t that keen on kissing you—”

 

“Charlie.”

 

“Right, sorry, the point being, might as well try with food you actually like. Meaning absolute junk.”

 

Dean wants to crack her a smile, he really does. Wants to show her he knows this is her way of being there for him. Wants to validate her attempt at letting Dean deal on his own ways. But he can’t. He’s rendered incapable of as much as the tiniest upwards quirk of his lips, because the images of Cas on the cross are still haunting him.

 

Every. Damn. Second.

 

“He’ll be OK, Dean,” Charlie says, voice softer, hand on his shoulder tightening its hold a little.

 

He knows. No real danger of losing Cas, by this point.

 

But he hasn’t woken up. Cain says it’s not abnormal. But even if he’s physically safe and sound...

 

“Will he?” Dean asks, his voice barely a whisper.

 

Charlie stays quiet for so long Dean gives up hope on getting an answer. Not as if she would know anyway.

 

“He will.” Her voice is barely a notch louder than Dean’s, but there is confidence in her tone. “He has a family. He has us. And Dean, he has _you_.”

 

That’s not always enough, though — Dean should know. But he nods, either way. It’s better than nothing. It’s all they have.

 

—

 

Dean wonders how it is, that despite of how much death and destruction he’s caused and witnessed during his life, this — this, Cas curled up on their easy chair, gazing out the window instead of ever as much as glancing at Dean’s direction, his eyes eerily unblinking and still, a tide where there’s not supposed to be one, where it’s supposed to be stormy wind and waves and a wild ocean, is the most terrifying sight he has ever been up against.

 

_Second most terrifying_.

 

But still, all the times Dean has taken a life (justified or not, it always haunts him), all the times his own has nearly been taken from him...

 

Cas, just sitting there, going through the motions as if no one around him, _as if Dean_ , did not exist, _terrifies_ him more than anything, save for...

 

Save for what he tries desperately to bury and never let his brain make him see, ever again.

 

And he wants to shout. Wants to take Cas by his shoulders, shake him, make him _hear him_ , anything, _just look at me, that’s all I’m asking, Cas, just look at me, please_. He wants, needs, to do something, to snap him out of it. But he _can’t_ , and he’s not stupid; he knows he can’t, would know even if Cain and Charlie hadn’t given him a lecture about it. But it’s _hard_. He wants to know what the hell happened to his world; what happened during the six months Dean spent in his own personal hell, after Castiel’s disappearance, after the murder scene that hadn’t seemed so fake at the time, before he ended up on that cross, in the church. He dreads the answers Cas might have for him, but he _needs to know_. How can he even begin to help, if he doesn’t even know?

 

But even in his impatience... Dean can’t afford to frighten Castiel. That’s not who he wants to be for the man. Not that he ever wanted to, but especially now, after some twisted psychopath has done God knows what to his lover.

 

So he uses all of his willpower to keep repeating Cain and Charlie’s words in his thoughts. Adding his own, from all that time he has spent with the love of his life. _Give him time. Be gentle. Care for him, don’t force it. Keep talking. Keep being a constant. Let him lean on you, his own way. He’ll speak when he’s ready to speak._

 

(But what if he never will be?)

 

And Dean feels old, so old. Actually feels his forty years, instead of half of him being stuck in the illusion of a man of barely thirty. And maybe he’s done some growing, despite having missed it. He doesn’t think he’d have had this in him, ten years ago. This patience.

 

Perhaps it is just that it’s Castiel. That they’ve done their growing together. Perhaps Dean has sides to himself that don’t manifest around anybody else. Cas always brought out the best in him.

 

“Hey, buddy,” he says, softly, settling onto another easy chair, trying to maintain a distance from his partner that seems appropriate; not too far, definitely not too close. He knows there were no signs of any sexual assault, but Cas was gone for six damn months, so who can tell? Even if it wasn’t like that, Cas was obviously kept a prisoner for all that time, and Dean doesn’t want to bring back memories of violence, be that of any nature. He coughs quietly, eyes Castiel for a few seconds, then grabs up the poetry book from the coffee table. That’s another new; Cas was the one who really ever understood the appeal or literature.

 

“Sorry about the ‘buddy’, man. You always hated that,” Dean mumbles as he searches for the page he was left off last night. He needs to get a damn bookmark. “Said it made it sound like you were being friendzoned. OK, here we go, love. See? I’m capable of being cheesy, as well. Well, you know better than that, Cas. People wouldn’t believe the romantic crap just being in the same room with you made me wanna do for you. You know,” he huffs a mournful laugh, “I’m not even gonna bitch about it. If... _When_ you get better, and when you start to embarrass me by telling everyone I surprised you with an apartment full of scented candles, I’m not gonna be a pain about it. I will just let you. I mean it, too. No matter how many giggle fits Charlie has at me.”

 

He pauses, still staring at the page on the poetry book, rather than looking at his husband.

 

“I love you.”

 

And he starts reading aloud before, even if Cas were speaking, he would have a chance to reply.

 

As much as it terrifies him, that Cas never as much as makes eye-contact with him, Dean is also able to find a sense of calm in their new norms. Waking Cas up by letting the sunlight in, cooking him breakfast. Urging him gently towards everyday things, like showering (and it gives him hope that Cas settles into a daily rhythm, is capable of taking care of his basic needs, doesn’t need Dean to do everything for him, understands him even when he is failing to communicate back at him), sitting at their balcony if the weather allows it, curling up in the living room and reading aloud until his voice is hoarse... It’s a change of pace, really. Charlie claims it’s good for Dean as much as it is for Castiel, after not allowing himself much other than work for the past half a year.

 

It’s strange. It’s certainly not something Dean would ever do, without Cas needing him to do it. (And even so, it’s a choice — Cain offered to look after Cas if Dean ever needed time to recharge, but it’s out of the question. And if spending time with Cas, like this, does anything for Dean, it definitely recharges him, in more levels than just one.)

 

And most of all... He spent so much time grieving the loss of his everything. Turning out, that he never really lost him, that Cas is _alive_ , that fact alone... feels good. Feels so _good_.

 

Above all the uncertainty, above all the fear Cas’s mental state is giving Dean — he can breathe again after what feels like a lifetime.

 

Like waking up from a long nightmare.

 

—

  


Cas’s first instinct tells him to _fight_ whoever’s holding him down. His half-awake brain doesn’t connect the dots at first; Naomi had always had him restrained, one way or another, often also drugged. So although it can’t logically be her, holding him down, he fights, because as much as he would like to use the _flight_ option, he can only do that if he escapes the hold of... of...

 

“ _Cas_. Please, I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

 

But he keeps trying to thrash against the hold the voice has on his shoulders, pressing him down against the mattress, claws at the arms holding him, heart feeling as if it wants to burst out of his chest.

 

“Cas, it’s me,” the voice says, all calm and collected, soft and... gentle? “It’s Dean. You’re safe. Hey. You’re all right. Not gonna hurt you. Not gonna let anyone hurt you. It’s just me.”

 

Fuck.

 

He stills under Dean's touch, tense, blinking his eyes open to gaze up at him, trying not to look too scared, too wide-eyed. Apparently he fails; Dean withdraws his hold just a bit too fast for it not to make Cas wince in regret.

 

"Sorry. Sorry, Cas, I didn't mean to frighten you."

 

Cas averts his eyes, lets out a sigh. He's come as far as being able to hold eye-contact — sometimes — but he hasn't said a word in so long.

 

He glances at the form of his husband sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over, and curls into a ball, eyes half-shut, trying not to tremble.

 

"This is my fault." Dean's words come so silently mumbled Cas has trouble making sense of them. "It's not like you'd have _enemies_ if you weren't... But _I do_ , and I couldn't... 'm sorry. 'm sorry, Cas, 'm so, so, sorry..."

 

Cas swallows hard; it sounds like Dean is talking to himself, rather than really at Cas, but the words hit his heart, _hard_.

 

Of course Dean would think this was _his fault_. Stupid ass idiot, always taking the blame for everything.

 

Cas desperately wants to scream at his lover — to wrap his arms around him tight and never let go, to keep reassuring him, over and over, that it's _not_. But he can't find his voice, he can't... It's not that he doesn't want to communicate. He just struggles to have... control over his words. He spent a lifetime (it feels like at least) holding his tongue around Naomi. In fear of her hurting him, even if she never managed to properly make him _her angel_ , like she had repeated every single day, even if she had eventually tossed him out like a broken toy that bored her, he had learn to stay _silent_ , to try and fake obedience.

 

He hates her for robbing him of his words now more than ever because he needs them to love Dean.

 

"It should've been me."

 

Cas parts his lips in a silent shout of protest, but Dean has his back turned towards him. He sits up, stops breathing, fights his own broken psyche. _Don't you dare, Dean. That is not true. That is not true. That is_

 

"...not true."

 

They both gasp for breath in unison. Dean's head snaps towards Cas in split second, Cas struggles to _breathe_ , staring.

 

"Cas?"

 

Dean's voice is so _broken_ it brings tears to Cas's eyes, and he lets them flow, free. With them, his breath returns, and words, it's like his tears are forming his sentences for him.

 

"S-she took me because _of my name_ , Dean," he sputters, shaking with all the tension he's holding. Needs to get the words out lest they disappear on him again. " _Castiel_. Wanted — she wanted... tried to make an angel. 'Cause of... my name. Didn't... know who you... She... Wasn't your fault." He needs Dean to _listen_. "Wasn't — your — fault."

 

"Holy fuck, Cas," Dean croaks, more at the fact he's talking than at his words, it seems.

 

Cas's hands twitch and Dean reaches for them, _for him_ , and Cas reaches back, and even though Dean closes three whole feet of the distance and Cas closes just a few inches of it, they meet halfway, and entangle.

 

—

 

Some days, Cas feels like he’s moving in slow motion. And some days, that can be a good feeling, too. Days of calm, spent with Dean, just the two of them. They are ticking to the same rhythm. Some days, Cas thinks he’s content, happy, just like this. Just pressing his body close to Dean’s, their arms around each other. Just breathing. Just being. The gentle forehead kisses, the reassuring touches to each other’s backs. The quiet smiles exchanged at breakfast, the feel of Dean’s hair against Cas’s palm.

 

But then there come the days when Cas is slightly out of sync with the rest of the world. When something, any stupid damn thing (the noise of a coffee mug resting against a table a little too loudly, the doorbell, the black wings of a bird fluttering past the window, the touch of his lover’s digits resting against his nape at the wrong time), sends his brain to overdrive. They learn, with time. Cas learns not to be ashamed of his triggers, Dean learns not to feel guilty of them. But it doesn’t make them OK, even so.

 

And then there are good days, again. Good and bad, alternating; sometimes the world just moves too quickly for Cas and he finds himself so on edge he can’t sleep for days. Other times he’s having a perfectly good time with Dean and their mutual friends, when suddenly it feels as if he’s trapped in a universe far, far away, and just the shell of him remains present with the people he loves, and he’s unable to communicate it, because his facade keeps on going as if nothing were wrong.

 

Maybe that’s as good as it gets — maybe the darker days will lessen and the brighter ones will seem just an inch brighter, as time goes by. But maybe... this is it. The aftereffects of Naomi, always ready to come back to haunt him. And maybe that’s OK. Maybe that’s not awful, at all. Could it be, that he will eventually be able to stop living as her victim, and start living as his own person, again, even with the memory of what she did to him there? He doesn’t know, but with Dean by his side, it doesn’t seem unlikely, at all.

 

—

  


“You could become a chef,” Cas says, and it’s more the content look on his features than the commentary that makes Dean graze him with a warm smile. “For just... us. Charlie, Alex, Cain, all of us. I...” But instead of completing the sentence, he shoves another, slightly more aggressive spoonful of stew into his mouth.

 

Dean bites his lip from across the table. He hums. “...Yeah. And you’d be stuck being the delivery boy. Wanna reconsider?”

 

Cas’s lips curl into an amused smile, and it’s the most beautiful sight Dean has seen in his life.

 

“I...” Dean’s turn to ponder on whether to complete a sentence, or leave it. He huffs a sigh, averting his eyes. “I am done. With the job. I am... done, Cas. No more. Charlie’s got us both covered for the rest of our lives, and I can still be of use for her, just... in other ways.” No more murder. “...After we— after one last...” And this is why he’s keeping his eyes averted. It’s not that it’s news to Cas, that Dean wants to be the one to kill Naomi, if Charlie ever tracks her down. But he doesn’t like it. And they both know that, as well.

 

—

 

Dean has no right to be the one breaking down. Not in front of Cas, at least. No. And the judgement he places on himself makes him break down completely.

 

"Sorry," he mumbles, half-incoherently, at Cas, who is holding him securely in his arms, holding him even as Dean is trying to pull away. "Sorry, sorry, sorry..."

 

"Dean. It's all right," Cas repeats in return, soothing, calm, steady. "It's all right, my love. This hurts you, as well. I'm not the only... You've gone through too much. You get to cry, too."

 

"Wanna fix it," Dean mumbles, but he's so _tired of fighting this_. "Just wanna fix it, wanna make it better, make it right, be — _good —_ for you..."

 

“You can’t make it ‘right’, Dean,” Cas says, and his voice might be gentle, but the words are daggers at Dean’s abdomen. His hold of Cas tightens. Cas’s hands massage calming patterns at his back. “That doesn’t mean you can’t make me _happy_. And safe. Just, please. I want to move on. Please, move on with me, Dean. Please. She’s not worth — this, driving you to break yourself. She’s not worth any of this. ...And you don’t owe it to me to end her, either.”

 

Dean wants to argue. Wants to tell Cas he owes him _everything_. But it’s not how Cas feels, or what he wants, so maybe... just maybe... Can he do that? Even when asked to do that? Let go? Give up? No... Move on.

 

The thought is so selfish it makes him wail for several seconds. Cas holds him through his walls breaking, holds him through the wails and the sobs and finally the rivers of tears calming into droplets. And then, through the quiet.

 

Minutes pass. Time feels dulled.

 

And finally, “Can I stop fighting?” He’s asking Cas for permission, one he can’t grant himself. He’s spent his entire adult life _fighting_. Can’t even tell what he’s fighting for, anymore. If this is what Cas wants, and Dean chooses to continue trying to fight Naomi nevertheless, who exactly is he fighting for? Not Cas, that’s for sure. Not if that’s not what Cas wants of him.

 

“Yes,” Cas replies, his tears falling against the skin of the crook of Dean’s shoulder and neck. “You can stop fighting. Life’s not supposed to be a fight, and you’ve... fought long enough, for one.”

 

“But what do we _do_?”

 

It’s not even as if this wasn’t the plan all along, after saving Cas. To stop, before this job ends him. Yet somehow Dean has no idea what else there is. What else there can be.

 

“Anything we want,” comes Cas’s reply.

 

Gentle, firm arms pull Dean onto the carpet on the floor along them. Cas settles them into a comfortable cocoon, grabbing throw pillows and blankets from the easy chairs at arm’s reach. Lips rest against Dean’s forehead.

 

He sighs. A heavy weight lingers on his heart, and then, just like so, fades away, as if just deciding to leave, to find a new residence. He moves closer to Cas, exhales a shaky breath. There is a sensation of freedom he can’t remember experiencing before.

 

“OK,” he murmurs, as Cas trails a path of new kisses along his face, starting from his forehead, grazing his nose, ghosting his lips, arriving at his chin. “That sounds good.”

 

“Good,” Cas agrees, voice vibrating against Dean’s neck.

 

There’re a few minutes of content silence.

 

“What do you want to do?” Dean asks, because it’s easier than _What do I want to do_?

 

Cas lets out a hum, as if thinking about it carefully. “For now,” he starts, lips moving against Dean’s skin, “I’d very much want to stay like this, for a while. To hold you, just to hold you.”

 

Dean sighs, again, listens to Cas’s heartbeat (or is it his own? it’s so loud) against his own body, lets the rhythm calm him into a pleasant state of not quite awake, exhausted from all the crying, all the anxiety. He repeats his words from a moment ago,

 

“That sounds good.”


End file.
